Mood Music
by CornishGirl
Summary: It wasn't truly fair—or normal—for a younger brother to call up his brother and *demand* his whereabouts when both were in their thirties. Except, well, bad things happened to Winchesters. Had been happening since Sam was six months old. Winchesters couldn't take anything for granted. He picked up the phone he'd left on the dresser prior to his shower, and called.


**Mood Music**

* * *

Sam was in the motel shower when his brother wandered off.

He exited the tub, towelled prodigious amounts of hair partially dry—Dean once said it resembled a Poodle topknot, which was ridiculous, because his hair wasn't _curly_ ; if anything, it more closely resembled an Afghan Hound—finger-combed it out of his face, then donned boxers and departed the bathroom to gather up fresh jeans, tee, overshirt, plus slip-on boots.

Except he only got as far as pulling on jeans and a tee when he realized Dean was missing.

Which would not ordinarily have been of any concern at all, since Dean vanished from motel rooms often enough while Sam was in the shower. Usually it was to grab a soft drink from the vending machine, or to drag the cooler in from the car, or to obtain a local news-rag from the motel office; even, on occasion - if he was hungry and decided Sam was taking too long - he'd go off in search of dinner to bring back to the room.

So Sam wasn't worried, and merely occupied himself by putting clothes on his body. By the time he was done with that, and his hair was half-dry, he realized Dean had been gone too long for most of his usual _Sam's-in-the-shower-and-I'm-bored-and/or-hungry_ activities.

Sam checked the bedside clock radio by reflex, reminded himself they were often wrong—besides, he'd been leery of them since Broward County and Asia and 'Heat of the Moment'—then looked at his watch, sitting on the dresser; then matched _that_ against his phone.

Okay. The clock radio was telling Martian time, but his watch and phone synced nicely, thankyouverymuch, and Dean really had been gone for too long.

This was always a quandary for Sam. He and his brother were in their thirties. Even if Dad were still alive, it was highly doubtful either son would stand for being ordered around at this age. (Well, Dean would undoubtedly be predisposed to do that no matter what age; Sam occasionally had the skewed vision of 60-year-old Dean limping off at the behest of their octogenarian father). At any rate, it wasn't truly fair—or _normal_ , everyone else would say—for even a younger brother to call up his brother and demand his whereabouts when both were in their thirties and they'd only been apart for 25 minutes.

Except, well, bad things happened to them. Had been happening since Sam was six _months_ old. Winchesters couldn't take anything for granted.

He picked up the phone he'd left on the dresser prior to his shower, and called.

Dean's phone rang.

From Dean's bedside.

In the motel.

Three feet away from Sam.

Sam said one succinct word that began with an "f," but wasn't "friggin'" or "freakin'" or "frickin'."

He pocketed both phones, tugged on his boots, and exited the motel room at a speed verging on Warp 3.

And there was the car. All her black, chromed, sleek, shining glory beneath the weak motel overhead walkway lights glowed at Sam, as if to inquire what his problem might be. _I am here; all is right with the world._

"Yeah, right," Sam muttered, finding it not remotely odd that he was talking to a car; Dean did it all the time, and Dad had, too, back before he went truck-mode and gave the Impala to Dean while Sam was at college.

So. Dark out. They'd arrived after sunset. Yeah. Dean had been saying he was hungry, while Sam insisted on showering before heading out to whatever cheap diner Big Brother would elect appropriate to serve up greasy food. Sam had always found it unfair that Dean believed he was stone-cold crazy for liking healthy food. But he _did_. Sure, burgers were good! As were fries. But Sam also enjoyed a high-piled Chef's salad _because he liked it_. Dean's brain had somehow lost the connective synapse that comprehended a man might eat things Dean couldn't appreciate simply because _that man_ _liked it_.

The non-existent Winchester Rulebook—Sam had asked to see it once, back when he was young enough to believe there really was one—contained nothing whatsoever, as far as he could determine, about human food that might be considered helpful—or non-helpful—while tracking the supernatural. And since Sam had long ago proven his ability to destroy that supernatural, he felt it also proved beyond any reasonable doubt that what one ate played absolutely no role in the success rate of Winchesters vs. Monsters.

Dean believed this was proof positive that his diet was favored, completely disregarding that Sam's argument also supported _Sam's_ dietary preferences.

You are what you eat. Who'd said that?

Oh yeah. Sam remembered. Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin. _"Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are."_ A French lawyer and politician.

Maybe he could remind Dean that a Frenchman was commenting on French Fries—except French Fries weren't French at all. But Sam did not wish to enter into _that_ discussion with Dean.

He just wanted to find his brother.

So. Car still parked outside the room. Yes, Sam recalled there had been a diner situated very close to the motel. He also remembered a bar stood just across the street from said diner.

Dean was known to consider peanuts, pretzels, and popcorn, served at a place where booze was available, to be its own food group.

Sam took the car despite the short distance. Because: _circumstances._

He should have known. He should have extrapolated what might happen. Because: _Dean.  
_

He parked in a designated handicapped space, feeling the usual guilt. But, hey, it was closer to the door; and, well, _circumstances._

Maybe he ought to staple a handicapped permit to his brother's forehead, just to save time.

* * *

Inside. Yup. There was Dean. He was hunched over the old-time jukebox feeding it a meal of quarters. Some drunk guy was yelling out for 'Rhiannon' by that sexy fox Stevie Nicks.

In the guy's younger days, a younger Stevie Nicks _was_ a sexy fox. But right now, Sam just wanted to pry his brother away from the jukebox.

He walked up behind him slowly, stood slightly off a shoulder. Spoke quietly. Because you never knew, with circumstances like these, what Dean might do. "Hey."

Dean gave him a baleful eye more than a little robbed of its impact because it was both bloodshot and squinted. "Yeah?"

"You eaten? I've got pizza back at the room."

Well, no, he didn't; but that could be remedied. Right now the point was chumming the waters so the Great White Winchester might go for it.

Dean frowned down at the jukebox, jammed more quarters in, punched buttons. "Gotta play Stevie."

Sam noted the playlist. "Dude, you've put Stevie on repeat. That's gonna be, like, two full hours of 'Rhiannon.'"

"Yeah? So? Rihanna's hot."

Sam sighed. "'Rhiannon.' Not Rihanna. _Read,_ Dean."

Dean thumbed the button again, then turned enough to look more squarely at his brother. His face lighted up as if it was Christmas morning and he'd discovered a marvelous toy beneath the tree. "Hey! Sammy!"

Sam sought weapons. Verbal weapons. "Hey, Dean. Listen, you just loaded up two hours of Stevie Nicks singing about a witch. A _witch_. You don't like witches, remember? They're unsanitary, among other things."

Dean, facing Sam, propped his butt against the jukebox and folded his arms. "Rihanna isn't unsanitary."

"I have no doubt Rihanna's not unsanitary," Sam agreed, "and I'm certain Stevie Nicks also isn't unsanitary. But we need to go now, okay? Let's go have pizza back at the room."

The fast vibrato of Stevie Nicks's high, thin voice, singing about a witch, filled the bar. The drunk guy seated nearby cheered, hoisting a half-depleted mug.

Dean frowned. "That's not Rihanna."

"No, Dean. It's not." Sam stepped closer, since his brother did not appear to be contemplating violence. "Let's go, okay? Pizza. Beer. In the room." Well, okay, part of it was a lie.

Dean brightened. "Beer?"

And another lie, for the good of the cause. "I pulled the cooler in."

Dean bobbed his head. "Okay. Yeah. We can do that. 'Sides, I can't stand this song."

Sam nodded back, venturing to place a guiding hand on his brother. "And some idiot just set up two hours' worth of this song."

"Assbutt," Dean muttered. "No taste. Though Fleetwood Mac did make some great music." He paused as Sam angled him through the bar. "Dude—where we going?"

Sam shouldered the door open and prodded him into the parking lot toward the car. "Room. Pizza. Beer."

"Aw, Sammy—man after my own heart!"

* * *

There was no pizza when Sam aimed Dean through the motel room door, nor was there beer. By then, Dean didn't seem to mind. He was singing.

"Dude, _please_ ," Sam moaned.

Dean paused in mid-lyric to assert that Sam was not his type, and not even a _'please'_ would work.

"I'll remember that," Sam promised primly, as he shoved his brother to the bed near the door. "Listen, I gotta make a call. That okay?"

Dean, propped half on the bed, half off, with a pillow behind him as he leaned slantwise against the headboard, waved a hand that was no more articulate than his mouth. "Go 'head, Sammy."

Sam found what he wanted on the phone, then held it down close to his brother. "Say hello, okay?"

Dean obligingly said hello, then continued singing. After a moment Sam shook his head and shut down the phone. Dean's shower would have to wait. His brother was too far gone, short of Sam physically wrestling him into the tub, and that he did only on the rare occasions when it was life or death, not mere body odor. Or lighter fluid. Or blood. Or even guts.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"—like this song."

"Okay. Good for you."

Yeah, he could call for pizza. But they had a stash of food in one of the duffels, and Sam dug it out. He offered some to his brother, but Dean was having none of it; possibly he'd filled up on peanuts and pretzels and popcorn at the bar. So Sam ate cereal bars and granola bars, which did not in the least offend his palate even if it did make his teeth stick together, and washed all down with tepid pop. Because they _were_ after all out of beer.

No pizza. No beer. Possibly if Dean remembered in the morning, he might bitch.

"C'mon," Sam said finally. "Let's strip you out of those clothes."

"—not my type," Dean repeated.

Sam debated forcing the issue, so his brother would be free of stained and odorous clothing. _Nah. Not worth it._ He yanked the bedspread off his own bed, snapped it out across his fully clothed—even to boots—brother, undressed down to boxers and tee, then crawled into bed.

"Go to _sleep_ , Dean. You need it!"

Dean was no longer singing, thank the good Lord, but he _was_ humming.

* * *

He woke up to his phone making horrific noises at him. Holy Christ. Stop that _racket._ Save his life. Save his soul. Do _some_ thing. But STOP IT RIGHT THE HELL NOW.

He fumbled, found the phone, cracked an eyelid long enough to see the three-letter word on the display. He woke up the phone, managed to settle it against his ear. "Yeah?"

Long pause. Then came the familiar raspy, gravelly angelic voice that was so much easier on the ears than the window- and eardrum-bursting tone he recalled so well from the first two visitations many years before. _"Dean, Sam told me to call you. I don't quite understand why, since I had Sam on the phone when he called and he could well have told me what he needed to know himself, or asked me what he needed to know himself, but—"_

Dean, eyes narrowed to slits, cut him off. "Cas. Enough. Why are you calling?"

 _"Sam told me to."_

Dean slewed squinted eyes westward, looked at the bedside clock radio. "Sam told you to call me at 5:00 in the morning?"

 _"Yes."_

"Why?"

 _"I don't know. Isn't he with you? Because if he is, I don't understand why he'd ask me to call you."_

"Neither the hell do I," Dean admitted, sweeping a cursory gaze across the room, "but he's not in his bed, and he's not in the bathroom, and I got no clue. What do you want, Cas?"

 _"I don't want anything. Sam asked me to call."_

"Specifically at 5 a.m."

 _"Well, time is relative. It's 5 a.m. to you, but to me—"_

"Cas."

 _"It's now 5:04, Dean. What do you need?"_

He rubbed at his aching head. "I don't need anything."

 _"Then why was I to call you?"_

"I don't know, Cas. Call Sam _and ask him! "_

Cas disconnected.

Dean gazed blankly at his phone for a long moment. Then it rang again.

No. It didn't ring.

It _sang._

Horrifically.

It was so bad Dean couldn't identify the voice _or_ the song.

A three-letter name.

Dean thumbed the screen. "Sam! _What the hell did you do to my ringtone?"_

Sam's response was laughter.

"Holy crap, Sam, what _is_ that shit?"

Sam said, "That's you, Dean. You, in all your vocal glory. Singing 'Rhiannon.'"

"Rihanna?"

"' _Rhiannon_.' The Stevie Nicks song."

"I don't sing that! She's a chick!"

"But you played it for two hours on the jukebox. Nonstop. Fortunately we didn't stick around for the concert." The door handle rattled, and Sam came in. He was grinning as he swung shut the door, dimples on display. "And you _did_ sing that."

"Stevie Nicks?" Dean asked into the phone.

Sam, standing the vast distance of possibly five feet away, said into _his_ phone, "Yes."

Dean scowled at him. Then he lowered his phone, turned it off, muttered, "I want me my Deep Purple back. Something _metallic_. And it's sheer torture to torture a man who's concussed by playing this shit song."

Sam put his own phone away. "But you said Stevie Nicks is a sexy fox. Though admittedly that comment came _after_ you were concussed. Or, no, that was someone else." He paused. "You do know it's not good to drink on top of a concussion."

"Didn't have a _drop_ ," Dean insisted. "Wanted tunes first." His face puckered. "Was I in a bar?"

Sam dropped down on his bed, stretched out as he put his phone onto the bedside table. "You took off when I hopped into the shower. I found you across the street. I really didn't think you'd disappear on me so fast. You _said_ you wanted to watch TV."

Dean's brows hitched in an expression of rueful acceptance. "Small town TV vs. bar. Huh. Yeah. Kind of like a Bloodhound after a scent, I guess."

And his phone rang, and the caterwauling of a concussed Dean Winchester singing a very bad impression of Stevie Nicks broke the peace of the motel room.

Dean opened the connection. "Cas! Don't call me for five minutes! Dude, gotta change my ringtone! _Trust me on this!"_

After a pause, Cas replied, _"All right. I'll just wait, then."_

"Torture," Dean muttered, as he sought alternate ringtones on his phone. "I'll get you for this, Sammy."

His little brother simply smiled.

* * *

 _ **~ end ~**_

* * *

 _A/N: This story actually grew out of three small moments. Moment 1: I suddenly realized Dean's phone had not been playing a hard rock ringtone for some time. All those years, and he'd ditched that ringtone! Moment 2: Sam would take great joy in changing his brother's ringtone to something horrific, particularly if it embarrassed Dean; and Moment 3: Years ago, a friend and I, out shooting pool, were indeed subjected to an unending symphony of a certain Stevie Nicks song on the jukebox. To this day I can't hear the opening notes without wanting to vomit. (However, like Dean, I do believe Fleetwood Mac made a lot of great music!) This was fun to write; I hope it was fun to read!_


End file.
